


Jigsaw

by Spearquint (orphan_account)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Gen, M/M, Santos Administration, feat. political inaccuracies probably, implied/referenced PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27072835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Spearquint
Summary: The way's gone all wonky, sometime between then and now.
Relationships: Josh Lyman & Donna Moss, Josh Lyman/Sam Seaborn
Comments: 19
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

Sam ends up harping on the communications bullpen eleven weeks after Josh gets back from a week of mandated vacation time and six weeks after the inauguration. He gets a whole host of messages about it that he gets rid of after the first one; then he puts his head in his hands and sighs. 

“Look,” Lou says, rubbing her forehead, sitting in Josh’s office. She’s been swamped for the last couple of weeks. “He's being nice about it. Irritatingly so. And I know you two are, you know -”

“What?” Josh cuts in. He hasn’t done this song and dance in ages: filling in the silence when people attempted to find a word for him and Sam. Josh isn’t the writer, so he just settles with interjections to throw people off. It’s worked this far. 

Lou gives him a strange look. “ _Close._ I know he’s good with words, Josh, and his input would be really valuable. Eventually." 

“But you want him out.”

“I want him out,” she repeats. "Sam's not a speechwriter anymore. Isn’t he supposed to work _here_ anyway?”

“Well, it’s in his job description. I could fire him for that." It’s not serious, and Lou can tell. The first time Sam had left, it had felt like a blunt knife shoved in Josh’s chest, hollowing him out. Their phone calls had been full of Sam’s half-explanations and Josh’s half-questions, like they were going somewhere and every time they’d thought they made it, it was another dead end. Eventually, it had ended with Sam saying he wasn’t coming back and Josh on the other end, trying to come up with a reply. 

Lou raises an eyebrow. “Right. I'm going to talk to him. I’m just letting you know.” 

“That’s fine,” Josh says, and doesn’t think about five years ago, waiting for Sam at his door, tapping a beat into the floor. 

••

“You're displaced,” Josh starts off, leaning in the office doorway. Sam blinks up; his eyes crinkle. He doesn’t smile as much anymore and there’s something about that that makes Josh feel unbalanced - like he's lost his way. 

“Lou already told me,” he says, taking off his glasses. Sam looks tired. “I’m sorry, I’m just -”

“ - not used to it?” Josh replies, and he looks at the floor, instead of Sam. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and then there’s a heavy silence between them that stretches. Josh has never known what to do with silences, and being friends with Sam almost guaranteed there weren’t any. Whether it was his early morning ramblings, or his random tangents, or his sad, sad attempts at small talk, Sam was always ready to fill the emptiness up with something. 

Josh wonders when this had become their normal - had it been the moment Sam had left for California? Had it been Josh's half-assed attempts at making things work after? All he knows is somewhere along the way, they've lost the map to what makes them _them_ , and Josh had thought that with Sam being here, it would right itself: a compass showing them north. 

But it hasn't. A pit opens in his stomach. 

"Josh?" Sam's voice breaks him out and Josh looks up at him. 

"Yeah?"

"You were -" Sam makes a gesture. "I lost you there for a bit." He squints, and Josh remembers the first time they'd gotten shit faced. It'd been during their first summer at Congress as interns; the beer had been from some junior staffers who'd felt bad for them. Sam had been rattling on about why the LSATs were terrible and how he should've majored in English instead of political science. Josh had been floaty, half-awake, nodding along, and trying not to look too close at Sam's mouth. 

Sam had squinted, hair sweeping across his forehead, and said, "You're not even listening."

Josh had cracked a joke about glasses and Atticus Finch and Sam had gone on another ramble about _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , which he'd read six times. 

"I'm good," Josh says now. "I mean, I will be; I'm just waiting for the eye of this shitstorm to show up so I can get some peace."

"You know that passes, right?" Sam replies, eyebrows arched. "I'll have to rescue you when you get hit in the face by legislation and bad coffee." 

Josh blinks; Sam's mouth twitches in the beginnings of a grin. 

"Well, stock up on supplies, then," he says, half-reeling, trying his best not to let it show. He's got a meeting with Santos in two hours and he hasn't prepped yet. Donna would've remembered, but she's all the way in the East Wing, probably doing a whole lot better than he is. Even though she's here, and she stayed, there's something dull that hurts whenever he gets up to call her name when he forgets. "I've got to go, uh-"

"I know," Sam says, crisp. Of course he does. "Make sure you read those memos on the Cabinet, by the way. I sent them to Miriam." 

Miriam, Josh's assistant, not Margaret. Because Margaret Hooper had resigned after Leo's funeral. 

In the limbo that they occupy now, there are moments like this that make Josh hope, selfishly. Hope for something that isn't actually there anymore - something that maybe shouldn't. People change.

But there was Sam telling him to get himself together or he'd leave for California. There's now. Josh can hope against hope for more, because maybe that's all that's left. 

"Thanks, Sam," he says, and leaves before he can say anything else. 


	2. Chapter 2

The first 100 days are up, which leaves maybe three days in Josh’s schedule when he goes home at a reasonable time, before things start tipping into crazy territory. There’s some kind of state dinner that’s being arranged to welcome the ambassadors, which leads to multiple instances of Lou saying, “I swear to god, if I see another run-on -”, hands on her hips in a way that’s a little Toby Ziegler first-term-esque. It's the first one of the term, so it explains why everyone's going bonkers (Josh included). The senior staff meeting where they’re all giving updates on it leads to Katherine - Kay, she'd corrected gently, hands folded in her lap during the interview - Kegan, the new press secretary, asking she should address the fact that John Marbury has died and the ambassador spot from the UK is vacant.

They’re all quiet for a moment; Josh wonders how it had flown under the radar. A lot of things tend to fly under the radar nowadays.

“Leo would’ve done something,” Sam says, quiet, and Josh looks at him. He’s taken off his glasses, rubbing briefly at the bridge of his nose. When he looks up, his eyes are dark. “Or said something, for all their, you know…”

There’s something lurking under that; once upon a time Josh would have been able to guess, but he’s in the dark, grasping for straws.

“Ok,” Santos replies, and there's a heaviness in his tone that comes with anything about Leo; Josh’s chest aches, like someone’s scooped out under his ribs and left a hole where tissue should’ve been. “Go ahead, Kay; have Lou look over it.”

Kay and Lou nod; Kay looks a little wary. She’s seven years out of a Master’s from USC and a post on Americares. She’s young, but quick; she doesn’t mince her words, she's direct, and there’s a cadence in her responses that reminds Josh of CJ in the beginning of everything. She’d come as a recommendation from Annabeth Schott, right after she’d turned down the press sec job with a half-grin and sad eyes.

They all go to exit. Josh goes to go after Sam, but Santos keeps him behind to state that he wants to redo the proposed healthcare plan, which, yes, Josh saw coming since the debate, but it’s not like he’s looking forward to the kickback.

“Mr. President,” Josh says, wheels spinning in his head. “The current plan’s pretty set in stone. Switching it up could alienate people we have on the other side, or some of the less-moderate Democrats. And then there’s the whole tax thing - “

“Josh,” Santos replies, looking amicable. Josh knows him well enough to know that he’d actually been steeling himself for whatever Josh’s going to throw at him. “I’m not saying we do this now, but I do want to make it a more official part of my platform. I don’t want to scare people off; I’d like to get insight on all sides before we start working with Congress about it.”

It makes sense to wait at this juncture and sneak in some kind of bipartisanship; Santos is the man who made his political opponent Secretary of State, after all. When Josh had found out about it, he’d started laughing like an idiot before he realized that it wasn’t a joke. Vinick’s not exactly been - _nice_ \- but he’s too good at acting as a soundboard about foreign policy for Josh to have any criticisms about it.

••

Finding excuses to have conversations with Sam is _hard_.

It’s not like they haven’t talked about things outside work; Kay had made it a point to get to know them all since she hadn’t been on the campaign. They (Lou, Sam, Kay, Josh, and Donna) had had drinks while trading stories; Josh had mentioned getting Sam from New York and ended off with, “Sam basically came on board because of my dimples.” He’d been tipsy; it was the only way that he’d said it without feeling complete, terrible mortification.

Sam had blushed under his tan, radiant under the lights, and said, “You’re giving yourself too much credit,” while Lou laughed in her drink and Kay glanced at the both of them, nonplussed but grinning, bright against her dark skin. The openness of Sam’s face had left Josh smiling stupidly.

Donna had giggled over her tumbler. “If all it took was that, _Joshua_ , we’d have solved more problems a long time ago. Like not needing to calm down Congress after telling them to stick it up their ass.”

Lou had said, “You _what?",_ eyes glittering, and that had set off another tangent: Josh Lyman’s Most Embarrassing Moments, Vol 1 and 2.

It feels like there’s an impasse to actually talking about everything between Sam leaving and Sam coming back. The history between him and Sam has always seemed to have giant KEEP OUT signs around things they don’t talk about; the second summer they’d been interns, five months on the first campaign where they'd been something between a relationship and friends with benefits, the one time after Rosslyn when Josh had told Sam about the window. It hangs over them like a sword; like if they even mentioned it, it’d be catastrophic. Luckily for them, they’re both great at deflecting.

Josh wants to say things are different now; that if Sam said something that he wouldn’t just try changing the topic, or let it fizzle out. When they'd first become staffers, it would've been easy to avoid anything about it - falling in love with each other, with another guy, wasn't something they could just do. Even now, when attitudes have shifted, however slight, in the last couple of years, when _Lawrence v. Texas_ had been decided a few years ago, they haven’t - they aren't. Maybe it's because things still haven't changed enough on the whole, or maybe it's because things have changed too much between them. 

Before it’d been easy to fall back on witty banter and back-and-forth. Now, there’s just Josh’s heart speeding up when Sam pops into his office, or when his eyes catch the light just right - Josh hoping for something that isn’t going to happen.

Being Sam’s best friend has always fit him better anyway, he tries to convince himself as he walks to Sam’s office to talk about - something. Josh is thinking Santos' comprehesive education bill because Sam knows education like he writes - unyielding and passionate. Before he gets there, though, Donna sidles up beside him like a ghost and he jumps, surprised.

“Jeez, Donna, give a guy a warning -”

“Your reflexes are worsening. You’re officially old,” she says with a sweet smile and dancing eyes.

Josh misses her; it sits in his chest like a brick. It’s not the distance, or lack thereof - Donna’s just over in the East Wing - but her presence five feet away from his office, ready to offer insight or a metaphorical whack around the head if need be.

“I’m not -” he says, before Donna replies, “You are,” like she’d prepared it in advance.

“I wanted to talk about the First Lady’s agenda with you,” Donna starts, scanning his face. “But I think you’ve got something on your mind.”

Josh pointedly does not mention Sam and says, instead, “I’ve always got something on my mind. It’s my job. Do you still -”

“Actually, I’ve got my own agenda, too,” she interrupts, as they walk through the hallways. They’re clearing out; it’s Friday and people are getting ready for the weekend. Josh huffs out a laugh. “I knew something was up; you’re a double agent, Donnatella.”

“The CIA’s been trying to recruit me since forever,” she acquiesces. “I told them no, on account of the fact that I’m terrible at lying.”

They stop near the bullpen, where people are still working. Lou’s probably in her office, still combing through that state dinner speech. Donna turns to him, and her eyes are soft and pale under the light. She puts her hands on his shoulders.

“Are you doing alright?”

The question takes him offhand. “What?”

“I know you basically thrive off working crazy hours,” she says. “But you’re looking pretty bad. Like fourth-straight-day-of-dealing-with-Congressional-committees bad. Anymore, and I'm going to have to take over your life again."

Josh’s tempted to just offer an excuse about being too tired or something. He really is. He’s ready to stave off this conversation, to just head to Sam’s office and talk around the things they’re never going to talk about, like they never even happened. He’s ready to never talk about them.

The thought cracks something open in his chest. He sighs.

••

And that’s how Josh and Donna end up in a storage room in the basement, surrounded by files and cabinets and crap. She’s sitting on one of the lower filing cabinets, ankles crossed, fingers folded under her chin, elbows on her knees.

“Maybe you’re lonely,” she says, and Josh laughs a little. Donna raises her eyebrows.

“Donna, I’m literally surrounded by people all the time, I have friends -”

“Josh,” she says, and then her face goes into feeling-bad-for-Josh mode, which - no. No. “I meant to say - you haven’t been with anyone since Amy, who's always dealing with Congress now. Maybe you’re looking for that, but you don’t know it.”

Josh leans against the wall, letting his head rest against it. He thinks about the reply to that, turns it over once, twice. Then he says, “That’s not true.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow.

“It wasn’t really a relationship; it was - a few one night stands, I guess?”

She grins, like a kid who’s found money under their pillow. Or like a woman on a mission. It’s half-wicked, half-sweet. “Who? When? Do I know them? Did they work here?”

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Josh says, sarcasm laden in his tone, but he can feel his hands shaking from where they're twisted behind his back. Donna gives him a look and he answers, “Second term. It was someone on White House Counsel."

He can see her running through the options in her head before she suggests, “Ainsley?” 

“No!” Josh says, affronted, and the thought makes him want to grin, it’s so absurd. So he does. “God, you don't know me at all, Donna.”

“Well, there aren’t any other choices,” she replies, frustrated. “And I'm offended; I know every lunch order you’ve ever made. Everyone else were guys, so -”

It takes her five seconds to put the pieces together, and her mouth drops in a little O. Josh feels like something should shift, that something should change, but everything feels exactly the same. Like the before and after of this don’t exist, exactly; it’s just one, unbroken line. It hadn’t felt that way with Sam, years ago; then, it felt that they were suddenly on the precipice of something completely different.

Donna’s silent for a bit. Then: “I feel like I should’ve known.” 

Josh quirks her a grin, rueful. “Contrary to popular opinion, you aren't all-knowing, Donna.”

She gets up and whacks him on the shoulder gently. Josh yelps and goes to rub it, giving her a questioning look before Donna sighs and reaches around his shoulders to hug him, tucking her head neatly in his shoulder. He hugs her back almost immediately, and his eyes burn a little. It’s been so long since he’s said anything about this to anybody; it’s always sat in the corner of his brain, dormant and silent, but telling it to Donna feels like a breath of fresh air. 

“I’m bisexual,” he mumbles in her hair. The word feels new and bright in his mouth. She squeezes him tighter. “I didn’t say anything because -”

_-because it wasn’t ideal? Because I didn’t want anyone to dig deeper? Because I didn't want to make it real? Because of Sam?_

“It’s ok,” Donna says as she pulls back. “It’s ok, Josh.” She’s smiling, but it’s small, and her eyes are watering too. Shit. He reaches up to brush a tear away from her cheek and she gives him a bigger, wobblier grin.

“Besides,” Donna says as they disentangle themselves, wiping her eyes quickly. “Don’t you remember when Joey Lucas said I liked you?”

“Yeah?” Josh says, wondering where she’s going with it. There's something about the first Bartlet term that rings warm and familiar, soft-edged with memory. Obviously not all of it is like that; cello music still sends cold shivers down his spine and the skin on his right palm still stings and tingles on cold days. But he does remember Joey saying that, a grin playing on her face like they'd been on an inside joke. Donna laughs at his confused look, settling a hand on her cheek.

“It wasn’t you. It was her.” The words don’t compute until they do, and he thinks he can hear his jaw drop.

“You -”

“Me,” she says, and she’s really smiling now, filling her whole face. “We could’ve been hung up on her together, you know? Ice cream and bad movies and everything. Broke the ranks over shared heartbreak or something. I mean, if you weren’t already hung up on -”

Her grin slackens, halfway through, and her eyes go wider than plates. Josh waits for the rest of the sentence, but Donna stays frozen, like she’s just realized something insane, like the earth is flat. The waiting turns to worry, and he says, “Donna, you're sort of of freaking me out -”

“Oh my god,” she says, breathless. Donna looks at Josh, eyes brazen and blue and - what the hell?

 _“Oh my god_ ,” she repeats, and it’s out of wonder. “This explains so much. _So much_.”

Josh is still stuck on the fact that Donna’s had some kind of mind-bending epiphany, so when she says, “I have to go, see you on Monday!” and pecks him on the cheek, blowing past him in a whirl of blonde hair and high-heels, he’s left in a random storage room wondering what the hell just happened.


	3. Chapter 3

Josh spends his weekend swimming in paperwork about the state dinner from the White House Social Secretary (what?) and figuring out what he needs to deal with and what Sam needs to deal with in terms of legislation and meetings. He contemplates, on more than one occasion, whether digging up the WWLD post-it is going to give him any insight whatsoever. Most days, he’s up to his eyeballs in whatever issue’s hit the West Wing that week or memos from vaguely disgruntled members of Congress; sometimes it feels like he’s coming up for air once every three days from the sheer weight of it all. 

Leo had made the job look like an art; CJ, after the first few days on shaky legs, had made it look like a duty. Josh’s tempted to call her up from California and ask her how the hell she did any of this with a semblance of a normal life or sanity, even. Every time he thinks he's got a handhold on what he’s doing, something happens and he’s lost all over again.

Sometimes, walking by Sam's office, hearing his voice over the phone, or seeing him in meetings is comforting - like implicitly knowing Sam's there in some capacity means _hey, you're ok. you'll find your way through._ There's a jagged edge to that that still hurts - remembering how Sam's office had stayed bare for weeks after he'd left before Will Bailey had settled in, but Josh'll take the pain instead of nothing at all. 

On Monday, Donna doesn’t answer any of his messages and Josh bumps into two aides, an harried looking liaison, and Sam halfway through his trek to get more coffee. He’s mostly avoided thinking about her expression over approving whatever cake flavors they’re going to use (again, _what?_ ) and of his meetings later in the day, but it picks at him like a scar. 

"You should get your ears checked," Sam says, as soon as they settle into a walk after getting coffee from the bullpen. Sam had stirred an obscene amount of sugar in his, which has stayed on since his days as a dorky undergrad at Princeton. Josh figures that even if the world ends, Sam will keep inhaling way too sweet cups of caffeine. 

"Why?" Josh questions. "I've got great hearing. All the more to get to the gist of things; otherwise we'd never get anything done." 

Sam fixes his glasses, the side of his mouth quirking briefly. "Balance issues, Josh. Inner ear problems? Maybe then you'd stop tripping over me." 

This isn't new; they've experienced their share of physical mishaps before. It's practically a rite of passage here in the West Wing - if you haven't walked into someone (or a door, Josh thinks, half-sheepish), you haven't seen it all. 

The thing about their purgatory, Josh thinks, letting the warmth of the cup seep into his fingers, is that it's comfortable. Safe. They could spend the rest of their lives here and no one would say the wiser. Josh doesn't know if he wants it to _stay_ safe, really, living in half-moments and silences, or if he wants to relearn Sam under all of this. It would be easier. But - 

"We should talk," he says, all in a rush. Is it the coffee? Sam stops, and his eyes go wide, blue and drowning. Something in Josh's throat drops straight through to his gut. 

"About - about the healthcare plan," he clarifies, hurried and apologetic. Why is he apologizing? When has Josh ever apologized over nothing - god, when had it come to this? "Santos wants to change it a lot and I'm still pretty up in the air about when to announce it to Congress. You know, to ruffle the least feathers possible." 

“Okay,” Sam says, and then they’re on the way to Josh’s office. “You know that’s not possible, right?”

“Is that cynicism I hear, Seaborn?” Josh says, half-joking, but Sam just shrugs in response. Sam, in the tail-end of the 90s and the early 2000s, had been sunshine and fire amongst the cloudy realm of politics. It’s not like it’s gone away, if Sam advocating with his shoulders held back and his eyes bright to a bunch of skeptical Congressmen is any indication, but there’s something that’s a bit jaded and exhausted about him now, lingering on the cut of his jaw and the beginnings of crow's feet that makes Josh’s heart hurt. 

“I mean,” Sam’s saying, sipping his coffee. His voice gets into this-is-what-I-think-and-you-need-to-listen mode, which makes Josh look at him. “Medicare should be a public option for people in this country. Healthcare should never have to be a privilege - it should be a right for every child and adult who needs it to have it, and we shouldn’t have to jump through hoops to get to it. But things don’t always line up.”

“Right,” Josh says in the quiet that lingers after, charged with Sam’s words. Sam could make anything sound desperately, immediately important; he could make anything seem vital and necessary. It was the first thing Josh had noticed about him, nineteen years ago and barely out of being a 1L himself. “That’s why we’re here.” 

“I’d say before summer recess so everyone has time to mull on it, maybe go back to their districts and states and gauge the opinion there.” 

“State of the Union might be better,” Josh says, drinking half his coffee in one go. Sam stares at him, actually stares, like he hasn’t seen Josh do crazier, then shakes his head. Josh can almost convince himself it’s fond. “You know, since he’s already announcing everything on his platform anyway for the first time.”

“If we don’t let people know beforehand, you’re going to get more than just memos from Congress, _Joshua,”_ Sam replies, and god, he’s smiling and they’re both completely sober this time around. He’s still a sight, even after all these years. 

“Yeah well, _Samuel_ ,” Josh snarks back, but his heart’s thumping maybe a million miles per hour and he has to hold on to the rest of his reply before it evaporates into no man’s land. “There’s this thing called compromising.”

“I’m aware; this country was founded on it,” Sam says, eyebrows raised. “I mean some of it was questionable and probably snowballed into a lot of conflict, but -”

They’re at Josh’s office. Miriam is doing a very good job of ignoring them, but Josh can see her rolling her eyes.

“So what, let’s take half your idea, half mine and call it even?” Sam says, dimple popping out, and everything about this hurts so much because it’s as if nothing’s ever changed. But Josh’s been stupid for Sam for so long that he doesn’t even care.

“60/40 split,” he says, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Hey, I outrank you, give me some credit.”

“Just a title, Josh,” Sam says, his voice lilting, and this time Miriam’s not even making an attempt to hide her smile, lined with knowledge. Josh is convinced that Donna’s taught her secrets to every damn assistant in the White House; they all seem to possess a scary degree of precognition about everything and everyone. “We all know who really gets things done.”

“As much as I’d love to know who that is,” Miriam says from her desk, and her eyes are sparkling. “You’ve got a meeting with the Senator from Wisconsin in ten minutes, Josh.”

“Right,” Josh says, and his voice comes out half-croaky. What’s that meeting about? Agriculture or something? God he’d prepped for it, what _is_ it? “Uh, do you want to talk about this later before we meet with Santos about it?”

Josh doesn’t _want_ it to be a conversation about work.

The thought scares him, almost, because he’s never let himself think about the after of any of it, of life with someone that knows him like Sam does, of something beyond things they never talk about. 

But then Sam says, “I’m actually going out with Ainsley in the evening,” and everything pops like a bubble, leaving Josh leaning on his door jamb, frozen like ice.

••

“She’s a Republican,” Josh grumbles, and Donna rolls her eyes over a carton of Chinese. He’d finally tracked her down and they’re eating a very late lunch together in the half-hour slice of free time they have.

“Josh,” she voices. “You lost the right to say that after you hired her.”

Donna’s right. It had taken one week for Josh to find Ainsley Hayes’ resume for White House Counsel and ten minutes to decide that she’d be right for the job. She’d had a lot of experience with being counsel and putting her in charge made sense. She was a Republican, but she was a reasonable Republican, so that was fine. Ainsley also had kicked Sam’s ass in a debate and on live TV for good measure; anyone who could do that and win deserved some kind of medal. Santos had stared at her creds before saying, “She advised Bartlet on Ritchie, didn’t she? Her arguments were very well put together,” and Josh had known she’d gotten the job. 

When she’d arrived in his office, blonde hair in a perfect bun and in a pantsuit that probably cost more than the rent on Josh’s first apartment, Ainsley had declared, “If this is what I think it’s for, Mr. Lyman, then I’ve got a couple of conditions.”

Some of Ainsley’s conditions had been an actual sit down with the president and an office as far away from the basement as possible. There’s probably a story there, Josh thinks, but he’s not sure he wants to know. 

“Also,” Donna continues and Josh blinks up at her. “There’s this thing called being friends with people, Josh. People go out with their friends to bond and things like that, you know?”

“I _know_ ,” He replies, frustrated. “But you know Ainsley and Sam. They had that - spark - or tension from arguing or something. I mean, if they wanted to capitalize on that now, who could blame them? Sam’s not engaged anymore and Ainsley’s smart as hell, Donna. They’d be good together.”

Josh wishes he was jealous or angry or anything, wishes he could make himself feel anything about the fact that Sam and Ainsley are going out on a date. That Sam will hold her hand and make Ainsley laugh and squeeze his hand back (or maybe Ainsley would give as good as she gets, rolling her eyes. Either could happen.) All he feels is something resigned and terrible in his gut, tasting like old blood: metallic, rusty and rough. Ainsley and Sam _would_ be good together; he’s not making that up, and if he’s missed his shot, he’s got no right to infringe on someone that could make Sam happy. 

“Is this really about Sam?” Donna questions, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Or is it about you having a crisis about Sam since forever?”

In the moment that comes after, Josh stares at her, open-mouthed and half-terrified, as everything in the storage room suddenly makes sense. 

“How -” he starts, before stopping. It’s Donna. Of course she’d figured it out. 

“Well,” Donna explains anyway, cracking a fortune cookie. “I always thought you two had history _,_ you know, back on the campaign, but I couldn’t really put my finger on it. You introduced him around with the dumbest smile on your face. You also dropped everything after the election to get him from California, which is a whole other sign by itself. And then -”

She stops suddenly, and her face changes from teasing to solemn. 

“What?” Josh says, and Donna turns to look up from her food. Her face is cracked open, raw.

“When you were in surgery, after-” she doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. The scar on his chest burns. “Sam was really out of it. He’d keep drifting in and out and started having a panic attack around the five-hour mark. It took me ten minutes to calm him down and the way he looked - he looked like he’d never been so scared in his _life_ , Josh.”

His eyelashes flutter a little, like she’s recalling the memory, or maybe like she’s trying to come out of it. Josh’s heart has skipped a beat, two, because - because -

No one has ever really said anything about what happened after he got shot and before he woke up. He knows that everyone had been in the waiting room for the whole time Bartlet and he had been out, but knowing that Sam had freaked that bad, been so afraid because of _him_ is something new. Something that’s terrifying and confusing and probably can’t mean anything, because it’s been so many years, and time and distance has changed the territory of their relationship so much. Sam's obviously moved on. There’s no way. 

He says so to Donna, who sighs in a way that sounds a little sad and a lot annoyed. 

“Josh, you are so smart,” she says. “You’re so infuriatingly brilliant about everything except your own personal feelings, and then you’re just like a first-grader or something.”

Josh contemplates her words for a good bit before he replies, “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be an insult or a poorly worded compliment, Donna,” and she sighs even harder, brushing back strands of blonde hair. 

Annabeth pops her head in a moment later, saying, “Hey, Donna, the First Lady wants you to look at something,” before she sees Josh and adds on, “Hey Josh, you’re looking mopey.”

“He’s being stupid,” Donna calls back to her, which leads to Josh exclaiming, “Hey! I resent that!” 

Annabeth says, “Oh, is this about Sam?” with a wide, twinkling grin. Josh’s face flushes and his stomach drops before he splutters something about privacy and personal lives, leading Donna to note, “You need to get a hold of yourself,” in a way that could be patronizing but because it’s Donna, is wistful and stern and gentle all rolled up in one. She kicks him out of her office with a wave and Annabeth’s smile right next to it. 

••

It’s getting late, Josh realizes, walking back to the West Wing. When he makes his way back, he finds Sam’s office dark and Ainsley digging through her purse for her keys.

“I am taking your deputy out,” she says, suddenly, not even looking up. Josh jumps and glances back at her; her hair’s in braids that coil around her head, and she's got on a pair of pearl studs. 

"Nice shoes," he says. They're glossy black under the light. 

“They're Louboutins," Ainsley replies. She makes triumphant noises and holds up her keys to the light, glinting. “I know they look nice. What I was saying is that I’m going to give Sam a break because god knows he needs it. So don’t yell at him because he’s left early.”

“No one yells at Sam,” Josh says. “They can’t resist his West Coast charm, and anyway, getting him upset would probably make them feel worse.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ainsley answers, shifting her bag, and flattening down her skirt, but her eyes are smiling. Josh wants to say something, anything that doesn’t come off as embarrassing and exposing and betraying, anything that doesn’t want to make him crawl to his apartment and not show up tomorrow. There are bigger things at play here than himself - there always has been. Sam deserves better, he thinks, and it’s not a lie. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Ainsley says, goes to leave, and Josh should wish her a good night or something, but all that comes out is, “He hates breadsticks.”

Ainsley stops, halfway through, heels stalling. She glances back. “Excuse me?”

“He hates breadsticks,” Josh says, and then it’s too late, and it all comes out. “Sam hates them, but he won’t tell you to be polite, because he's always polite, so whatever appetizer you get, don’t get them.”

Ainsley just looks at him for a heart-stoppingly long moment and Josh wonders, crazily, if she’s going to realize everything and start laughing. 

Instead, she says, “Thank you,” her voice sounding like Josh’s never heard it before. She turns and walks away before everything catches up to him and Josh wants to kick himself. 

He’s left there out in the cold with his feelings and knowing that he’ll always be like this when it comes to Sam: waiting for something that’ll never happen, off-center at every attempt he makes. 

The worst part is that it’s not new. It’s a game he’s played for years. This, Josh thinks, as he drags his way back to his office, is just one more round. 


	4. Chapter 4

Josh doesn't see the inside of his apartment for the next few days. Between getting ready for the state dinner, meetings with the president, and a particularly strange incident with Kay and a WaPo reporter, he's basically living in the White House. It's fine, because dealing with his job has always been miles easier than navigating the cartography of his emotions. They've taken a back seat for years, ever since the fire and Joanie, and he figures that this shouldn't be any different. 

He would be lying if he said that all of it doesn't prickle like an old wound, but well. 

Donna gives him sympathetic looks, but never brings up Sam and Sam never brings up the date with Ainsley, so Josh doesn't ask. But unlike every single other point in their history, this can't be swept under the rug. It's real and happening and Josh has to buck up and be the Chief of Staff before dealing with it, because actually venturing to do so might make him fall apart at the seams. 

••

The day of the state dinner, everyone's fussing over decor and outfits and form, and Miriam gives him hell over keeping his tux bag at his place instead of taking it to work. Josh ends up confirming a bunch of last minute things because the Russian ambassador is apparently allergic to vanilla bean while reading over a memo on a fiscal policy report they need to get to writing by next week. 

He's walking around, trying to remember if the security detail is up to par when he sees Sam and Lou huddled together over her laptop, smack dab in the middle of the bullpen with aides, interns, assistants swarming around them. The sight of the two of them is disconcerting; Josh is so used to seeing Lou with a gaggle of speechwriters perched over her or Sam scrabbling with Toby _(toby)_ that it makes him stop and look. 

Lou's typing furiously, mouth pinched at the side where it's quirked down. Every so often, she'll glance at Sam, who'll either nod or say something, pointing at her screen. Lou had sought Sam out, and Josh is suddenly dumbfounded at his own surprise. _Of course_ she would seek Sam out; for all that Sam isn't a writer by profession anymore, he's one by heart: it's wrapped up in him like his idealism and penchant for crosswords. 

Josh watches them exchange lingo and suggestions over the keyboard, and it’s only when Lou says, "Our fearless leader makes an appearance," that he jerks out of it. 

"That's the president," Josh says. "I'm just the fall guy. Are you two - ?"

"We're just about done," Sam says, and then his voice dips; he rubs his eyes under his glasses. "I, uh, hope it's alright I came around here, I mean Lou -"

"Lou asked for you and is happy that she did," Lou finishes, nudging him. "Just don't invade the bullpen unannounced again and we'll call it even." 

Lou had been skeptical of Sam at first. Kay had been star-struck, and Annabeth had made a few comments about him being Kennedy-esque but in a GQ way, which Josh still doesn't really get. But it hadn't taken Sam long to fall into a rhythm with Kay, who'd also been brought up in California and stayed there for school, or Annabeth, who had squealed and said, "Gosh, you're more adorable in person," in a way that had made Sam flush for two minutes straight. Donna had taken pictures. 

Donna had clicked with Sam back in '98 over whispered conversations in the campaign bus and an incident involving vending machines. When she had found out he was coming back from an offhand comment Josh had made, she'd given Josh a Look and marched out. Donna had found Sam unpacking his boxes early last December, and he'd hugged and twirled her two inches off the ground while she'd cried in his stupidly perfect hair. 

Lou had known Sam's writing, but she hadn't known Sam until he'd burst into the bullpen at 8 am on a Monday in March, detailing why her transitions were all over the place, and following it up with a whole bunch of his own suggestions. Josh, amidst everything, is happy that Sam's known and carved himself out a place - that he's present to all these people, and they're present to him. Josh had wondered for a split second on the flight to California if he was making a dumb decision, but seeing Sam in person had wiped it away like the tide. 

"Lou, make sure you review the final copy with the president before 5:30," he says, and then to Sam, "I need to head home for an hour. Can you hold down the fort here?" 

Passing the baton to Sam is easier than breathing, even with everything between them. He'd done it in the middle of nowhere, heat prickling on the back of his neck, Toby somewhere in the background muttering about why he hated teenagers, and he does it now, as Lou hefts her laptop and San takes off his glasses, shoving them in his pocket. His eyes are brighter without them. 

"It takes you way longer to get ready for these things," Sam says, not skipping a beat. "Make that two hours."

"How about three?" Lou adds, bumping Sam's shoulder with hers. 

Josh replies, folding his arms, "You know, in most cases, this would be considered insubordination. Also it does not take me three goddamn hours to get ready for these things, jeez." 

"I don't know," Lou notes. "Donna's got a few stories." 

"It's only insubordination if we don't listen to you, Josh," Sam says, and he looks as tired as Josh feels, but there's a spark lighting up his face regardless. "And you know we always defer to your judgment. Even when it's completely nonsensical."

Something about makes Josh's face hot and he mutters, "Yeah, yeah." instead of formulating an actual reply. 

••

Josh does not take three hours (ha!). But he apparently never learned how to tie a bowtie, which leaves him sitting in his office after trying in front of a mirror for forty five minutes and failing. Miriam's nowhere to be found and he's been staring at his answering machine like an idiot for five minutes. Josh thinks, _well, it's not as if it can get more fucking embarrasing_ , picks up the phone and dials Donna's extension. It goes to voicemail but he expected that. 

"Hey," he says, curving his fingers against the handset. "Can you come down here? I've got something -" he cringes " - urgent that I need you to do." God, Donna is never going to let him live this down. 

It takes five minutes of skimming papers on things his brain is too scrambled to deal with before he hears footsteps. Josh doesn't look up as he says, "Don't make fun of me -"

"Way too late for that," Sam says. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like he'd been poured into his tuxedo. It's not the first time Josh has seen him like this, and god, he hopes it isn't the last, but his breath's taken away anyway. 

"You're not Donna," Josh manages. He gets up and makes his way to the front of the desk, leaning against the lip of it. 

"Nope," Sam says, walking toward him, mouth curving in a smile. "She said you had something… urgent? But she sent me here instead. Said something about doing her hair." 

"Guess she didn't want a bad hair day," Josh replies, and Sam's eyes - blue and clear and sparkling - dart down to his neck. He shakes his head, and he's laughing. It's quiet enough that it lingers in the space between the two of them like a secret. "Let me get that for you."

"Be my guest," Josh answers, and then Sam's so close, nimble fingers on his tie. The last time they'd been so close, Sam's fingers had been tracing over the bandage on his right hand, and he'd looked like he was going to cry, mouth drawn and strained. Josh had thought about pressing their mouths together, thought about letting himself lost in Sam, Sam, _Sam_ , instead of the sirens inside his head.

"It escapes me how you've went to Harvard _and_ Yale, worked under two presidents, and been part of public policy that affects millions of Americans -" Sam murmurs, voice low and warm, like before he's had coffee."- but you can't tie a bowtie. How does that elude you, Josh?" 

"Well, you know," Josh says, letting himself slip into the conversation instead of thinking about Sam's fingers, an inch away from skin. "They don't teach you tie knots between torts and civil law. And after that my schedule was pretty packed, working in DC and all. You know?"

He's stumbling. He's repeating himself. They haven't even _talked_. God, he's so fucked. 

"I do," Sam says as he finishes the knot. "There." 

Josh swallows. "There." 

Sam's fingers stay there on the tie, and he doesn't lean back. There is something in Josh's brain screaming _stop this you idiot, you can't, not now, not here, and he doesn't -_

But Sam's smile has become something intimate, something small and knowing, something that Josh has mapped with lips and fingers and - 

"Guys," Kay says, and Josh and Sam jerk away from each other like they'd been burned. Josh ends up hitting the back of his shin against his desk and swears sharply under his breath. 

"Josh, are you ok?" Kay exclaims, alarmed, and Josh nods as he looks at her. She's got both hands braced on the doorframe and is in a dark green dress, flaring at the ends. Her earrings dangle slightly, like they're being caught by a breeze. 

"I'm fine, Kay," he says, to reassure the worried look in her dark eyes. "No need to call the cavalry." 

"Alright," she says, then shifts to let her hands fall at her sides. "I just wanted to say we better get going. I don't know if I'm up for the president asking me why two of his senior aides decided to ditch." 

"We're not at the prom," Josh retorts, trying to go for humor, because he needs something - anything to restore the normality before he goes crazy. 

"I actually _did_ ditch my prom," Sam breaks in, thoughtful, and Kay's eyes go wide. Josh can't help but roll his eyes, but relief crawls up his spine and into his chest. 

"I know you think that makes you sound cool, like JD or Danny Zuko or something," he replies. "But you ditched your prom to go to a book-signing, Sam. No dice." 

"And I stand by that," Sam shoots back, half-indignant, half-amused. 

"The sad part is that I actually want to hear the rest of this," Kay says. "But we -" 

" - are already out the door," Josh finishes, and Sam goes after him until they're out in the hallway on either side of Kay. Her face is looking confident, but there's something in her posture that's shaky. Josh recognizes it from himself, years ago. 

"Hey," he says to her and she looks up, startled. "Don't stress too much the first time around. Just dance, have a good time, and don't get too drunk. The thinking's for tomorrow, alright?" 

Josh remembers Leo saying something similar to him before the first inaugural ball. His hands had been clammy and all the mixed emotions had twirled around in him like a carousel. Suddenly, missing him is so tangible that Josh can almost taste it. 

"Steal some food while you're at it, Kay," Sam adds on, and she actually looks shocked. A half-delayed laugh trips out of her like a ball bouncing down the stairs. 

"Sam, stop encouraging theft," Josh scolds. "Next thing you know, all your precious fountain pens might get snatched, and then I'll be sorting through a million resumes because you'll decide to quit over not having proper resources or something." 

"Like you're any better, Josh," Sam says back, easy as anything. "Or should I explain the _real_ reason you're not allowed in the press room anymore?"

Kay starts giggling at that, and they exchange snips of stories as they make their way to the ballroom. It's almost enough to make Josh forget about what happened in the quiet of his office, everything stripped away except him and Sam and all the things that could have happened after.

It's almost enough to forget how the feelings lodged under his ribs, brimming with history and hope and giving up, have been puckered open, after years of letting them scar. 


	5. Chapter 5

The state dinner goes like clockwork. Santos' speech had gotten an enthusiastic reception, which Josh totally chalks up to Lou's whip sharp tone and conviction. He'd met her eyes, and she'd given him a small smile in return to his thumbs up. No one trips on anyone's dress or shoes and Josh doesn't mess up protocol once with any of the ambassadors, which is a plus. Nothing about their jobs is smooth and easy, but it's nice to pretend, at least for one night.

He's just off a conversation with the French ambassador, a tall man with dark red hair and a deep laugh, when Donna makes his way next to him. Her hair's in ringlets down her shoulders and she's got a delicate set of bracelets on that clink whenever she moves. He says, "You clean up nice," when she catches his eyes. 

"So do you," Donna replies, and then skewers another piece of cake off the plate balanced in her left hand. "This cake is actually good, by the way! Maybe you're not completely hopeless." 

If Josh was younger and full of hot air, he'd have said something about omniscience and having good taste. Maybe it's that he's tired from this whole week because he mutters, "I have no clue what that is. I just approved the first thing that no one would go into anaphylactic shock at." 

Donna, for her part, doesn't choke or start laughing at him. She eats some more cake and Josh watches the people dancing. Annabeth and Sam are in the middle of something - it looks kind of like a waltz, but Josh can't be sure. He wonders briefly if he's danced with Ainsley yet. Wonders how it would look, and tries valiantly not to think about Sam's fingers on his tie, the half-breath of space between them. The relief from before has morphed into something invasive, something terrible and familiar, mixing with all the chaos under his ribs. 

People laugh over the music - it's not strings. Everything's soaked in golden yellow, bright and comforting. 

"I take it back," Donna says, suddenly, and Josh turns to her. "But this still is great cake, Josh, and you know what goes with great cake? Dancing." 

"Donna, I don't think -" he starts, but she cuts him off, voice full of conviction. "Nope, Joshua, you aren't getting out of this one. You owe me for that time you slipped on my dress during the slow dance at the inauguration. A _slow dance,_ Josh. I mean you're not Mikhail Baryshnikov, but come on." 

"That was at least partly your fault. Also, I have no idea who that is," Josh argues half-heartedly, but she sets her plate down and grabs his hand. Her grip is tight, but not too tight - it's reassuring, like a constant. 

"You don't get to be an angsty teenager tonight. I know you want to and I'll let you be one tomorrow, I promise," Donna insists, and the fact that she knows this too isn't surprising either. The earnestness fills her whole face, and Josh loves her so much for it, doesn't know how he couldn't. "But tonight, you don't deserve to be miserable, Josh. And I'm not letting you, so there's that." 

There's so many years where Josh wouldn't have let himself be this exposed, like a wire. He feels turbulent and lost, like being caught in the rain without an umbrella. Then there's the issue that his entire emotional backlog about Sam is coming up full force in one terrible panic-filled rush, setting his brain on fucking fire. 

Josh had told Sam the whole story about breaking the window, about Robert Cano, about the sirens and the cello music one week after Christmas Eve, the day after Sam had come back from California. Sam, after asking why Josh hadn't told him sooner, had said, "I wish I could make it stop, Josh. I'm so fucking sorry I can't."

His eyes had been brighter than usual under the lights in Josh's apartment. Sam had held his hand, the one he'd smashed through the window, and Josh had wanted to kiss him. He'd wanted to make everything just _freeze_ for a second. So he leaned in. 

Sam had leaned in a little too, their foreheads almost touching. It would have taken half a second to connect their lips, half a second Josh to forget everything but Sam's mouth on his. 

But then, Sam leaned away and said, "I should go before my car gets snowed in." He'd let go of Josh's bandaged hand. Josh had said something along the lines of "Yeah, that makes sense," and that was it. 

Josh remembers what it felt like after Sam had left and he'd been alone in his apartment; everything had been tamped down and muted in his head. Now everything feels like it's dialed to thirteen, sparking and alive. 

Instead of dwelling on what the hell that means, Josh lets Donna drag him to the middle of the ballroom. 

••

Dancing with Donna is always fun, mostly because neither of them are great at it but are passable enough so they can pretend to know what they’re doing. The song's a slow, jazzy number, and Donna laughs through it, trying to keep a hold on Josh's shoulder. Josh steps on Donna’s foot at least once (twice! she insists), but the whole thing is sweet and light and a welcome distraction from whatever’s going on his head. 

Somewhere near the end of the song, Donna sees something over his shoulder, and her mouth goes all fond and hopeful. That smile is always either a signal for wonderful things or really, really insane things, and Josh doesn’t want to bet on either. 

When the song finally ends, Donna steps back, says, “You know what you have to do,” crypticness dressed up in kindness in a way that’s 100% Donnatella Diane Moss. She squeezes both his hands and points behind him. Josh takes a breath, and turns and -

\- it’s Sam. Sam, who is decidedly not dancing. 

“I have been ordered to,” Sam starts, and he’s not looking at Josh. “ - talk to you, apparently.”

“Ok,” Josh says, even though the part of him that was screaming earlier is now in full crazy mode. 

And it’s what he wanted, to actually talk, but for some reason, everything about it feels like he might melt into the actual floor, right here and right now. That’d be a crazy headline: _Santos’ Chief of Staff, Joshua Lyman, Dies of Mortification._

“Should we -” Josh starts, and Sam finishes, “ - get out of here, yeah.” Their eyes meet, and suddenly it’s like all the air’s back in Josh’s lungs and he realizes - this is Sam. It's Sam, the guy who had ranted about Dickens after eating week old Chinese at an ungodly hour. It’s Sam, who hadn’t said anything after his dad had died after Illinois, but had held him anyway. It’s Sam, who Josh has seen rewrite the same goddamn sentence twelve times and still not been satisfied with it. It’s Sam, who’d called Josh after the 47th and apologized, like it was his fault that he’d lost an unwinnable election. 

It's Sam, who still makes his heart do complicated stunts, after all these years, but it's also that Sam's still his best friend.

It’s never been hard to just _be_ with Sam, even with all their history. Neither of them have really lost their way; it’s more like that they just found a new way to fit. 

Even if the worst happens, they’ll still find each other in the ruins and figure out how to be alright. 

The new dance starts, and everyone shifts to new positions. 

••

By some miracle, they avoid anyone important and end up in Sam’s office - Josh’s office. 

Josh had used the chalkboard to track down votes on bills and scribble down random things that had come to him. Sam’s neat, cramped handwriting is all over it in organized, bulleted outlines. There’s one on a foreign summit that’s going to happen this summer. There’s one on education, another on the midterms. The whole room is categorized, and it doesn’t even bear a passing resemblance to the office Josh had occupied years ago. It makes him huff a laugh as he locks the door behind them.

“You must be doing a lot better than I was with this job,” he says, nodding at the room.

Sam shrugs, slips his hands in his pockets. Wait, these things have pockets?

“I don’t know, Josh,” he says, quiet. He turns, looking down. “Sometimes it feels like - too much, you know? Not that that’s a bad thing, but I feel like I’m stuck on all the details instead of being - what did you call it? A wide angle lens?”

“Doesn’t mean all the little things aren’t important, Sam,” Josh replies. “A machine’ll fucking break if all the little things don’t work right.”

“Yeah,” Sam pauses, before blinking back up to Josh. He looks younger and older at the same time, a paradox of - something. Josh’s never been a science person. Then Sam smirks, just a bit. “You’re still a terrible dancer, you know?”

“Samuel Norman Seaborn,” Josh says, because it’s all he can do to suppress the surprise that jumps into his throat. “Were you spying on me?”

“You’re not horrible looking, but your coordination _really_ leaves something to be desired,” Sam shoots back. “Also, Donna’s always been prettier than you, so don’t go assuming anything, Joshua.”

“When have I ever -”

“Don’t get me started,” Sam says, and then his face shifts and he sighs. “You know, I would’ve wanted to dance with you, if you’d asked. If -” _if we could,_ he doesn’t say, but it echoes in the room all the same. 

Josh’s heart is beating is so loud in his head that it might beat straight the fuck out of his chest. It might fall right here on the floor, for Sam to see, all of its scars and signs and -

_\- holy shit._

Josh wants to say, “Well, maybe, you could teach me a thing or two, Seaborn. I know for a fact that you took ballroom lessons until you were seventeen.”

Josh wants to say, “God, me too. I can’t believe it took you so long.” 

Josh wants -

Instead, he says, “Don’t do this, Sam.”

Sam’s head jerks up, and his eyes are wide and surprised. If it was any other day, his hair would have flopped on his forehead, but it’s spiky and dark and shiny. “Why - Josh, am I reading things wrong or something?”

"No,” Josh says, and it comes out sort of hysterical. “No, that’s the absolute worst thing, Sam, you haven’t. And things are different now, and it’s just - we can’t, Sam. I don’t think we can. You and Ainsley and I - we can't.”

Sam stares at him for a good, long, moment, face strained like he’s going to cry or like he’s thinking of an argument. And look, Josh has won maybe 15 percent of the arguments he’d had with Sam, but this, this, this, is something he’s known better than Sam for years. 

And then Sam’s mouth suddenly pulls at the end - like he’s going to smile? What the fuck? _What?_

“Josh,” he starts. “Ainsley and I are friends. She took me out because I was exhausted and she wanted to catch up with me. She’s the one who said I should talk to you, you know, or she’ll quit because of our ‘combined idiocy’ and then we’ll be kind of screwed, won’t we?”

Ainsley’s voice that night suddenly means something - it'd been realization, shock, maybe. God, is Josh _this_ obvious?

Sam is still talking, and Josh leans against the door, because if he doesn’t, his kneecaps might actually dissolve into thin air. 

“What we had was always so come and go that I never knew what to do, at all. I was the idiot who wanted more with you anyway, but nothing ever _really_ happened, so I just… gave up, you know?”

Josh is still puzzling that out before it starts to make sense. Then it really starts making sense, and he shoots back, “What do you mean nothing ever happened? Things did happen - I distinctly remember you being there when things happened, Sam! I'm pretty sure I didn't hallucinate you in my apartment after -” he stops, throat choked. 

Sam’s mouth parts, and his forehead goes into a mess of wrinkles. Then it smooths out, and he says, careful, “Nothing happened that time because you were - were in a pretty bad place, Josh. You’d yelled at the President, god, and broke a window, for crying out loud. I didn’t want you to do anything you would regret later, you know? It’s not…” he sighs, frustrated. “...it’s not like I didn’t want to kiss you back.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything, after?” Josh asks. His voice is shaking. 

“Well, there was Amy and I thought -” Sam stops, then jabs a finger at him. “No. _No,_ no - Josh, these things go two ways. Before that, you didn’t say anything. You didn’t say anything all the other times, either. What was I supposed to think?”

“Well -” Josh starts, indignation filling him up like a balloon, and then he looks at Sam. Looks at the line of his shoulders, sharp, looks at his jaw, held tight. Looks at his eyes, which ripple under the lights. Josh knows how to hold the nook between his shoulder and his neck and kiss him. Josh knows the places that make him laugh and scrabble and sigh. Josh knows him.

Josh knows him, and he knows them. So, for once in his life, he stops half-way through and shuts up before continuing. 

Eventually, he says, “You know what. I'm going to say something, you’re going to listen, and then we’re actually going to have a conversation about it.”

Sam stares at him. “...Ok?” His voice is hesitant. Surprised, maybe? 

“Ok,” Josh says, and then: “I’m in love with you.” It comes out, all shuddery and new, feels like exhaling a breath. He's never said it in the cold light of day before. He should have. There's a lot he should've done. 

Josh doesn’t waver from Sam’s eyes when he says the rest. “I think it's been wrapped up in - being friends, or something. But - " 

“Well, you know, friendship and romance go hand to hand,” Sam says, but his voice is strangled. He sounds like he’s in a trance, or dreaming or something. “It’s a cliché, but you know - it works.”

“I think I have been for - for a long time,” Josh continues, and it feels like his heart’s in a state of flux - healing and breaking all at once. “Even when I wanted to hate you when you left after Orange County, believe me, I did - but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. So.”

“So?” Sam replies. His voice rises in a question. 

“So, that’s it. That’s my piece,” Josh says. There’s a quiet after, and Josh is so tired of the silences, so he says. “Are you going to just leave me hanging or -”

Sam looks at him, and then he starts laughing, tipping his head so the line of his neck hits the light. It would be mesmerizing if it made any fucking sense. 

“ _Sam_ -”

“Josh,” Sam says, in between laughing and trying to breathe. “Do you know how ironic this is? That our relationship had a detour because of miscommunicating? I mean, you do know how, right, coming from me?”

It's not funny, until it is, and god, it does sound a little ridiculous in retrospect. Josh lets himself grin, just a little, back at Sam, who’s still laughing. Anymore, and Sam will actually think he's funny. “No one ever said you were good at talking about the important things, Sam.”

“Actually,” Sam notes, all serious, though the smile on his face is breaking any kind of thing he’s going for. “I’m pretty sure that was my job at some point -”

“You know what I mean,” Josh says, and he steps away from the door. 

“I think I could prove you wrong,” Sam replies, steps closer, until they’re almost touching. 

“Yeah?” Josh murmurs, flicking his gaze to look up at Sam. His whole body feels hot, like a star burning inside of him on the verge of an explosion. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and his hands are suddenly warm on Josh’s jaw, cradling it gently.

And then he’s kissing Josh, slow and warm, and Josh lets his hand slide to the join between his neck and his shoulder. There’s things he knows: where to put his hands, how to tilt into the kiss so Sam hums against his lips, sighing. There’s things he remembers: Sam slipping one hand in his hair, the shape of his smile against Josh’s lips. 

It’s a good kiss until Sam moves his head just so, and then Josh’s whole body goes boneless and waiting and thankful; it's something else altogether. He rests a hand on Sam’s neck, just under the spiky hair there, and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, like he’s come home from a long trip and just opened the door. 

••

When they finally break, Sam keeps close, dropping his head into Josh’s shoulder. 

“Should I take that as an ‘I love you too’, or…” 

“Shut up, Josh,” Sam says into the fabric of his suit, but Josh can tell he’s smiling by his voice. 

“Well,” Josh replies, stroking Sam’s hair. “Since you’re so good with words, it’d be nice to have verbal confirmation, Sam.” He adds, soft, “You know, if you want to.”

“I thought you had the cutest dimples I’d ever seen,” Sam starts, apropos of absolutely nothing, lifting his head from Josh’s shoulder. “You saw me arguing with those two other interns and you started smiling. I remember wanting to ask you if you knew anything about sailboats. Or what you thought about Reagan and TEFRA.”

“That’s a hell of a pickup line,” Josh says, even though something about it is so uniquely _Sam_ that he grins even harder. 

“I’m not good at flirting, Josh,” Sam answers. “I mean everyone thinks I am, but I’m actually very underqualified in that area. Anyway,” his mouth quirks and Josh wants to kiss the line of it. “Do you remember when we had that really busy week, the first summer?”

“Yeah.” Josh remembers it because it’d been the first time he’d understood the hustle and bustle of the Hill and DC, everything in constant, kinetic motion. The interns under that particular senator - five, including Josh and Sam - had been swept away in memos and paperwork and phone calls. 

“You were on the phone, and I was writing this memo,” Sam continues. “It was about this really obscure technicality, I don’t even remember exactly, but I didn’t really get it and I don’t think you did either. But you hung up and went with me to the Archives. We spent the whole afternoon looking for it. When you found it, you had the biggest grin on your face. I -” he pauses, looks straight at Josh. “That’s when I knew.”

Sam’s always had the ability to say things without saying them - the ability to dress up words in grandeur and purpose and passion, so before you knew it, you were nodding along to whatever he was saying. Josh realizes that it’s true here too.

This is his language - this is his way of saying _i loved you then and i still do._

Josh leans in to kiss him this time, and Sam meets him halfway. It’s everything that's laid between them for years and years and years, crystallizing into this moment, right here, right now.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually, they get back to the ballroom. It’s only been half an hour even though it had felt like a million years - maybe Josh had wanted it to feel like a million years. They don’t dance, but they get plates of cake and watch as the atmosphere winds down. Everything feels right, for once - like everything’s falling into place. 

“You know,” Sam says, and when he starts talking about the cake being good, Josh rolls his eyes. 

“I _know_ , Sam,” he replies at an attempt at annoyance, but the fondness peeks out like the sun behind clouds. 

••

“So,” Donna says after a meeting the next day about lining up interviews with the First Family sometime next month. “I got you something. You know, to make you feel better about yesterday. Just in case." 

“Donna, the number of times you’ve said something like that and then me actually getting something of value doesn’t line up,” Josh says, tapping along the edge of the desk.

Sam had driven him back to his place last night. Josh had asked him to stay over, but Sam had given him a cheeky grin and said, “You’ll have to wait until the third date for that _,_ Josh.”

Josh had wanted to make a crack about how it had been actual years at this point, but then Sam had darted in and kissed him, soft and chaste and tasting of chocolate cake and his mind had blanked out.

Donna squints at him suddenly, before noting, her voice edging on suspicion, “You’re looking way too happy right now.”

She’s right; Lou had asked him if his brain had been swapped this morning after senior staff because smiling is apparently not a normal thing he does. 

“It’s kind of weird. Like you’re secretly going insane,” she’d said, and Josh had tried to make up an excuse that wasn’t some incoherent mishmash of feelings. 

Instead, he’d said, “Duly noted. Don’t you have actual work to do?” and Lou had rolled her eyes.

Even Amy had caught him in the lobby and said something along the lines of _who's the lucky one this time around?_

“What?” Josh shoots back at Donna now. “Didn’t you say yesterday I deserved happiness?”

“I said you didn’t deserve _misery_ ,” she corrects, right eyebrow raised in a questioning arch, before pulling an actual pint of Ben and Jerry’s from her bag. Josh stares at it in some kind of shock, before: “Did - do you always have that just, you know, on hand?”

“In case of a national emergency,” she replies easily. At Josh’s dumbfounded look, Donna snorts. “Josh, don’t worry, it’s from my freezer. It’s kosher and everything, I checked.”

“You know that doesn’t detract from the fact -” he starts, and Donna says, “You’re deflecting. Something _is_ different.” Josh can see the gears whirring in her head, but shuts up before he does something like tell her the real reason _-_ which, yes, he adores Donna, but he doesn’t want to reveal anything unless it’s necessary, for now. That, and it’s fun to watch her work it out. 

Sam shoots in a few moments later, with a pen stuck behind his ear and his left hand holding a legal pad. 

“Hey Josh, Donna,” he greets, before adding on: “Josh, I wanted to ask if you had any more discussion points for that meeting with the House majority whip this afternoon.”

“Well, you’ve got the -”

“Yeah.”

“And the -”

“Yup.”

Doing this with Sam has never been hard; it’s like they’ve always spoken the same language. “Well, kick some ass for us, won’t you? You’ve always been better at this bipartisanship thing than me, anyway.”

“Well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t mow over party lines,” Sam says, and then he smiles. 

Josh gives him a grin back, mostly because he can’t help it. Donna looks back and forth at them, eyes narrowed, the pint of ice cream sitting forgotten in a ring of condensation. 

Then her eyes widen, and she says, “Wait. _No._ You two - ?”

Sam’s mouth parts, and his face flushes. Josh is maybe, actually, going to die of mortification this time around, he’s sure of it. He clears his throat, gets around the desk to shut the door, turning until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Sam.

“Donna,” Josh starts. "I have to stress how you _absolutely_ can’t say anything -”

Before he can finish, she’s making excited noises and hugging them both around the neck, arms strong and sure. Josh stands, frozen for a second before he reaches around to hug her back. Sam’s hand is there, resting on her shoulder blades and Josh reaches to put his hand on top of his.

It’s always felt right, him being with Sam and Donna, them here together in the then and now. Whenever one of them left, like Sam had for four years to California and Donna had for that terrible, terrible trip to Gaza, it’d been like he’d been left with pieces of his heart instead of having it whole. 

She pulls back, and her beam is blinding. “There are not enough words to say how _happy_ I am for you two. Josh,” she pauses to look at him. “I’m sorry, but I’m taking my ice cream back.”

“It’s probably half-melted anyway,” Josh adds, and she swivels back to check on it, balancing it in thin fingers. 

“Ice cream? I thought Leo had enforced a ban after that one time Josh got a sugar high, ” Sam says, kind of wondering, but his eyes are twinkling, the traitor. It was never a question of if they’d tell Donna, Josh thinks, suddenly. It was just a matter of time. 

“It was not a _sugar high_ ,” he grouses, crossing his arms. “I had a lot of - youthful enthusiasm and - and vigor. Anyway, ban’s off. Consume frozen treats to your heart's content or whatever." 

“All I had in my freezer was a pint of AmeriCone Dream, anyway. Very patriotic,” Donna notes as she turns back to meet them, and Sam lets out a laugh, bright and warm. Everything for a single moment is perfect. 

And then, Donna says, flipping open the lid of the pint, “So Sam, did Josh get all dramatic and start rambling?” and Sam replies, “Actually, it was more like he was rendered speechless by the weight of it all - I was concerned,” and Josh stares at them before leaning back against the door and trying not to groan. 

He’s trying not to grin too. 

••

It doesn’t take the third date for Sam to stay over - it takes a leak on the healthcare changes to Congress and doing damage control for four days so no Republican senators go through with the filibuster threats that are flooding Josh’s inbox. At the end of it all, the senior staff is huddled in the Oval, looking exhausted. Lou breaks the silence first, shoving her cat-eye glasses until they sit on top of her head. 

“Well, I don’t know about you, sir,” she says to Santos, who’s behind his desk and rubbing his eyes. “But I think I’m going to take that vacation day now.” 

“I second that,” Kay says, before yawning. Ainsley adds, "Fine with me." There are blonde flyaways all around her face. Sam raises a hand from where he’s leaned against the couch. 

“Motion granted. It’s the weekend, anyway,” Santos says. “Then you can get yourself an actual deputy, Lou.”

“Sir,” she exclaims, looking vaguely scandalized by the whole thing. “I’ve got a whole bullpen at my command. I’ve got a former communications director on retainer! What else could I possibly need?” Lou looks at Sam, tilting her head in mock indignation, and the corners of his lips turn up briefly. 

“ _Deputy_ communications director, Lou,” Josh tacks on, and she looks at him from where he’s sitting next to Sam. They’re not touching, but there’s a point of warmth where their knees are brushing together. “The help could be useful, you know." 

“I agree,” Santos notes. He’s leaned back, looking at all of them. “I’m assuming that no one's completely satisfied, but we’ve done what we could.”

Ainsley opens up her padfolio and says, "I'm going to go over this legislation again to see if I can start forming framework for a longer-term solution on both sides, sir. Amy Gardner and I are scheduled to meet with the Senate majority leader's counsel for next week."

It had taken staying until midnight in the Roosevelt Room with five cartons of takeout between them for Ainsley to say, "So, you and Sam. I'd like to keep my job, because resigning would not look good on my resume."

"If you leave, this is never going to get finished, so I think it's best if you just - keep doing it," Josh had said, not looking at her, but when he'd finally had to glance up to confirm some legalese, there had been a tiny smile on her face.

Kay kicks back her legs, her dark hair springing. She’s started to find her footing in all of this, and Josh can’t help feel a warm glow of pride at that, spreading through him like a flame. He wonders if that’s what Leo felt, the first time around - pride at the people he’d gathered to work for a greater good. 

“The press is probably going to be all over this,” she notes, quiet. “I wanted to get a statement prepared. I know everyone’s tired, so it can wait till Monday morning.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Santos replies, and Sam notes, “I can get you some basic points before then.” They get up and wish each other good night before going to their respective offices to close up.

••

“I have a proposal,” Sam says, and he’s waiting for Josh by his door. It’s something they’ve always done after long, long days, but there’s something about it now that tints it differently. Josh would call it romantic if he was one, but he isn’t. It’s mostly empty around them, with only a few staffers and aides milling about in the hallways and the bullpens. 

“Let’s hear it,” Josh replies, leaning against the doorframe. Miriam’s already said her good night; she’d looked almost as bad as the rest of them, but she’d kept her standard level-headedness throughout all of this. Josh thinks of Donna years before, standing in Indiana with her hands on her hips, her head held high. 

“Wait,” he adds on. “Is this going to be long? Because I know you love going on at length, Sam, I really do, but I swear, if you say _in addition to my previous point_ one more time, I’m going to literally chuck your thesaurus out the window.”

“Well, I’ve got an extensive vocabulary,” Sam replies. “Plus, everything’s online nowadays, including thesauruses, so that sort of defeats your point. Anyway, back to my proposal.” He pauses. “Okay, so my place is twenty-five minutes away from the White House, and yours is fifteen.”

“Are you trying to do math?” Josh asks. “Sam, I’m going to need at least six hours of sleep before attempting anything like that. My brain’s _fried_.” 

“I’m making a comparison,” Sam says, then splays out his hands like he’s explaining a policy or why the Red Sox are better than the Mets. Josh’s still not convinced. “Your place is closer. My place is farther. I’m saying it’d be more convenient if I could cut off ten minutes from my commute.” He stares expectantly, blue eyes bright.

Josh looks at him for ten seconds straight. “You could’ve just asked to come over, you know.”

“Well, I could,” Sam says. “But riddles are fun. Plus,” he tilts his head, winces a bit. “I’ve got a kind of a headache and I know you’ve got Tylenol somewhere, so.” The dimple in his cheek pops out, and he’s so gorgeous at that moment that Josh’s heart wants to burst from it. He wants to reach over and run a thumb over Sam's cheekbone, but he just settles for a big, dumb smile on his face. If Lou thinks he’s going crazy, he might as well go all the way. 

“So,” Josh starts as they walk out together. “You’re just in it for the drugs. Thought you had a squeaky-clean image, Seaborn.”

"I don't tell you everything, Lyman,” Sam snarks back, but bumps their shoulders together anyways, hands swinging in between them. 

••

The next morning, while Sam’s munching on toast and watching CNN and Josh’s silently cursing his coffeemaker in the kitchen, the phone rings. 

“You want me to get that?” Sam calls from his place on the couch. He’s got his glasses off, and his hair’s sticking up in a million places. He’s wearing a Yale Law shirt that's Josh's, and the seam doesn’t hide a bloom of purple on his tan skin, up near his collarbone. When Josh had seen it waking up this morning, Sam had waggled his eyebrows and said something about vampires, leaving him laughing while Josh tried to swat him. 

“Nah, I’ll get it,” Josh says, and makes the rounds to pick it up from its cradle. “Hello?”

 _“Joshua Lyman,”_ CJ says, and Josh sucks in a breath. _“How’s my favorite overworked public servant doing?”_

“Well I don’t know, Claudia Jean,” he says, and he can feel his lips stretch in a grin. “How do you think I’m doing?” 

_“Well, if I’m remembering things right, I think you’re probably tired to the bone and ready to leave it all behind,”_ she adds, and it’s almost like it’s eight years ago, and her office is just down the hall from his. _“But you’ve already dug yourself a hole and you’re not too keen to get yourself out anytime soon.”_

The coffee maker beeps and Josh knows that it’s somehow going to break if he doesn’t get to it on time, so he puts CJ on speaker. Sam strolls in, leans against the counter, and Josh hands him a cup. 

“Yeah, CJ,” he says and Sam blinks at him and mouths _CJ?,_ face quizzical. Josh nods before continuing, “Politics is my secret love. I’m abandoning Sam to go marry her.”

It doesn’t occur to him what he said until there’s a long silence on the other end and Sam is staring at him, eyes wide. 

“Uh,” Josh says, stumbling over his words, balancing the hot cup in his fingers. “That was a joke?” Sam is making a bunch of gestures that loosely translate to something that Josh would understand any other day, but he’s currently sort of freaking right now, so that’s not an option. 

_“I thought I’d never see the day,”_ she finally says, amusement curling in her tone. Josh does not gape at the machine, though Sam will tell him differently later. 

“You - you _what_?”

_“Josh, I used to wrangle the White House press corps daily. They were vultures. You and Sam are like … cute little chickadees. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”_

Josh crosses his arm like he’s seventeen and rebellious. “I’m not a - a chickadee. I’m not a tiny, fluffy bird, CJ.”

_“I don’t know, Josh. Why don’t you get Sam’s opinion on that?”_

_“_ Hi CJ,” Sam says, kind of sheepish, because there’s no point in hiding it now, and Josh knows Sam misses her just as much as he does. 

_“Sam!”_ she replies. “ _God, I don’t know why I didn’t quit sooner. The sun’s lovely here in California. I’m getting all the Vitamin D I lost over these last years.”_

“Now you know how I feel when I see a foot of snow outside my window,” Sam replies, sipping his coffee. “Never got used to it. Besides, what would Bartlet have done without you?”

 _“What would he have, indeed. Speaking of which, Spanky,”_ she says, and Josh snickers at the nickname. " _Congratulations. Really - I know trans-continental isn't the best way to do it, but I'm happy for you two."_

The look on Sam’s face right after is soft-edged and wistful. "Thanks CJ," he says, and takes another sip of his coffee. 

••

Afterward, they sit on the couch and leave the TV on low volume. It’s a rerun of _Fraiser_ , but neither of them are really paying attention. Their feet are tangled together somewhere in the middle; Josh is wearing socks and Sam’s not. Josh is in the middle of eating cornflakes when Sam says, “You know I love you, right?”

Josh stops eating and looks up at Sam. “Well, I _am_ pretty good in bed, if that's what you mean. You'd know." 

Sam's cheeks go pink and he ducks his head. “Don’t be an ass.” 

“I’m not trying to.That’s just you talking,” Josh jokes, before setting the bowl down on the coffee table. “Sam. What’s up?”

“I just -” Sam starts, then stops. He looks young, with the morning light streaming to catch his face. “I just - I don’t know. This is probably pretty stupid to consider at this point.”

“Whatever you want to say, I guarantee you that I’ve definitely said something more stupid. It's quantifiable." 

The corners of Sam’s eyes crinkle, but his gaze drops to his lap. “Sometimes I wish - I wish we’d said something about this sooner, you know? Maybe we could have had more time or something. More of this.” He gestures at the two of them in old t-shirts and boxers, and something about it makes Josh want to lean over and squeeze his hand. So he does. 

It’s not like Josh hasn’t thought about the same. He’s gone over their history in their mind so many times, wondering if there’d been a point that was just right - like there’d been a point that could have cultivated any kind of relationship between them, let it grow and flourish. Maybe it could have been watching Sam in a senator’s office in DC or in kissing him in a hotel room in Iowa or somewhere else. It’s not like Josh doesn’t have regrets. Maybe if they’d been together earlier, Sam wouldn’t have left four years ago. Maybe if they’d found their way sooner, things would be different.

“Hey,” Josh says, and Sam’s eyes meet his. “If we’d gotten our collective heads out of our asses sooner, yeah, it would’ve been great. But I think we’re doing alright now, and we’re going to keep being alright, Sam. I want this as long as you’ll have me.” 

Sam blinks for a few moments, just staring, and Josh wonders if he’s broken him for a second. When he’s trying to figure out what to say, Sam leans forward and kisses him, mouth soft and insistent on Josh’s. Josh’s so surprised that he ends up braced on the arm of the couch on his end, thumb skimming the collar of the t-shirt.

Josh leans forward to deepen the kiss, and Sam responds in kind, readjusting his hands to slip them in his hair. He darts down to kiss Josh's jaw, hot and quick and tickling. 

When Sam finally comes up, they share the space, just breathing.

“You came and got me, Josh,” Sam says, whisper-quiet. "I'm never going to regret going after you." 

“Even when I give you hell at work?” Josh mumbles back. 

“ _Especially_ when you give me hell at work. You give everyone hell at work, anyway.”

“So, what? You think you’re special?” Sam blinks and then he pulls back, grinning just a little wickedly. 

“If I wasn’t, I don’t think you would have let me -” 

“Okay, okay,” Josh acquiesces, holding up his hands, and they shift a bit so Sam’s leaning his head on Josh’s shoulder, their hands linked in the middle. He presses a kiss in Sam's hair, which smells like Josh's mint shampoo. 

"You think," Sam cuts off halfway through. Josh raises his eyebrows and looks down at him.

"I'm pretty sure I do," he says. "Otherwise, you're basically taking orders from a zombie. That'll be something for the press, if they aren't already obsessing about healthcare." Sam pokes an elbow in his ribs. Fucking pointy elbows. 

"You think this'll last this time," Sam says, tentatively, after. It's not a question. "You really do." 

Josh huffs a breath out, nudges his nose against Sam's crown. "I mean, I hope so. Which, ok, I know you're more into big displays and fanfare -" 

"When did you get _that_ idea-" 

"Do I have to recount the New York thing, Sam? Because I will. There's going to be that song from _Titanic_ blaring in the background and everything. There's extra points for it being during the rain and all."

"Okay, first, _no,"_ Sam says, and then he's quiet for a long moment, like he's considering. Then he continues, a little too gleeful, "Wait, is that from _The Notebook_? Josh, did you just get sappy on me?" 

"That - that's not important," Josh grumbles, and his face feels warm. "That's not even the point!" 

Sam's still looking kind of giddy, but his voice goes fond when he speaks again. "God, it was like that, wasn't it? I just up and left because you showed up." 

"You did," Josh answers, and feels something sweet well up between his ribs. He remembers watching Sam from the other side of the window, seeing Sam's face break open in realization and his mouth crack into a beam. "Both times. So yeah, maybe you're on the same page about this being a long-term thing." 

"Josh." Sam's looking up through dark lashes. "We've always been that sort of thing, even when we were just friends. We just finally said it out loud, is all. Words are power, you know?" 

"I'm pretty sure you got that phrase wrong," Josh says, even though he's ducking down to press their foreheads together, warmth blossoming in between them. "Which should be grounds for dismissal from whatever English nerd society you're _definitely_ part of, but whatever." 

"Logophile," Sam says, but he's grinning. "That's the technical term, actually." 

"I already have to sift through professional sounding crap for a living, Sam. Don't push it. I might just start packing for Westport if I hear anything else about appropriation." 

"Well, I'm not leaving," Sam murmurs. "And if I'm here, you're here. Right?" 

Josh can hear his unspoken question caught on to the way his voice hinges, turns inwards. 

"...yeah," he answers. But it's certain. There's always been certainty for them. Even in all of the in-between of figuring out who they were, there's always been something to stand on, true and solid.

Everything that came before is defined, but nothing now is. Somehow, Josh thinks, with Sam next to him like he's always meant to be, that's ok. They'll have time. They'll have all the time they can. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! have a lovely day :)


End file.
